


EXPOSE

by Zaiya (iqoras)



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2019-03-08 03:31:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13449615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iqoras/pseuds/Zaiya
Summary: “I wasn’t stealing anything,” she stated. He snorted in disbelief and that was apparently enough to make her angry. That was good because her confused calm had been starting to irritate him. “I wasn’t!” she shouted. “I was looking for my stone.” She pulled her hand out of his bag, luminescent white rock in her grip flashing through the air for emphasis, and pushed herself to her feet.“Don’t have to tie me to a tree,” she sneered at him. “I’ll not touch your stuff on this night. In honor of our time so far, you could say. Sleep in peace, Isaiah. It was a nice adventure.” Before he could reply, she slipped into the trees and out of his sight. His voice died on his tongue, words forming a stale pool in his mouth.Goodbye , he thought but didn’t say.





	EXPOSE

* * *

Glittering through the tree-tops and onto the mossy forest floor was a shining of bright, summer sunlight. The leaves shielded the cool ground, blocking patches of light and leaving the rest to decorate the green with patterned luminosity. Isaiah thought it was terribly macabre.

        Today should not have been a day of celebratory beauty. Today should not have come at all—-a never-ending night would have been much more fitting, he thought. But when does nature ever bow to mortal moods and inclinations? Isaiah rolled his eyes to the sky briefly before deciding that he had dawdled here in the center of the Achadeian forest long enough. It was time he got on his way.

        Isaiah was a simple man from a simple village in a simple kingdom. Tragedy rarely hit, the common folk in the village were usually content, as far as he knew, and though the king seemed a little _too_ charismatic in Isaiah’s opinion he was a fair ruler. A brooding disposition was simply _unheard_ of in the Athesian kingdom. That didn’t stop Isaiah from scowling or gritting his teeth. He did not want to be out here in the middle of a forsaken, bandit-infested forest.

        In his small village, Isaiah studied under the famed martial artist John Baradock. He was an eager student and learned his lessons without complaint. He had _thought_ that he was well on the way to graduation, to recognition for his own skills as a martial artist, and had been more than a little sour when Teacher Baradock pulled him aside earlier yesterday morning and told him he still had much to learn.

        There was something Isaiah was lacking, Teacher Baradock had told him, and he knew _just_ how to help Isaiah along. “There’s something I need you to do,” his teacher had said, “deep in the Achadeian forest, there is a night-flower. It’s unique to both this kingdom _and_ this time of year. It’s very valuable for its medicinal purposes. Go fetch it.” And so who was Isaiah, the dutiful pupil, to turn away the mission? He had respectfully accepted, though his heart had been heavy. Here he was now, already a day into the forest, and he still had a long way to go. This quest was almost certainly purposeless, Isaiah mused.

* * *

Something rustled to his left, shuffling the leaves. Out of the corner of his eye, Isaiah could see a figure huddling in the bushes, failing fantastically at being subtle. What an awful sneak attack this was, if that _is_ what this was. He huffed gracefully and continued on his way, doing his best to ignore the sound. If his nose turned arrogantly toward the sky and his eyes narrowed in irritation when the shuffling continued, at a more frantic pace, then he certainly wasn’t going to point it out.

        A hand bumbled out of the brush, followed almost immediately by a toppling form, feet rolling over head, and the rambunctious form ending up in a pile near Isaiah’s feet. He sighed and took a step to the right, away from whatever disaster this would inevitably turn out to be. “Ow,” said the form, and Isaiah only blinked at the revelation that the voice belonged to a girl. Couldn’t he just finish this quest without delay? The gods were certainly against him this day.

        The form wiggled to its knees then to its feet, staring at Isaiah with an accusatory glare. As if it were _Isaiah’s_ fault that she happened to be terrible at hiding in bushes! “Give me your money,” said the girl and (once again) Isaiah sighed.

        “No,” said Isaiah, forcing himself into motion. He was still three days away from the heart of the forest, where the night-flower lay, and he was more than a little ready to get this over with. Yes, he _still_ was bitter about being sent on this mission and _no_ , he did not care about what that may have said about his maturity level.

        The girl hurried after him, almost tripping on her feet. “It wasn’t a question!” she exclaimed. “Just—give me your money! This is a robbery, for Sif’s sake! You don’t get a say in it!” Isaiah felt a hand on his shoulder, fingers squeezing in an attempt to slow him, and less than a minute later the girl was once again sprawled in a pile on the ground.

        “Don’t touch me,” he grouched. “And good day to you.” He may have actually smiled, ten steps later, when he heard a frustrated scream challenge the sky with its anger. If he did, the smile was gone by the time he heard sound and the bandit had made her way back to his side.

        “Well,” the girl sang from behind him, “I’m going to follow you. There’s nothing you can do to stop me, really, and you’ll have to sleep eventually. I’ll just rob you then.”

* * *

Night _did_ come, many miles and hours later, and indeed Isaiah did need to sleep. The bandit was true to her word in that she followed him. Eventually she got bored of silence and filled the void with an unending commentary on nothing. He was fairly certain that she just liked the sound of her own voice. Perhaps silence gave her pain. He didn’t really care, either way.

        When time came for him to sleep, he was secure in the safety of himself and his possessions, and cheerfully tuned out the grumbling coming from a nearby tree. Out of his peripherals, Isaiah checked on his guest. The bandit was tied to a tree, covered in a blanket (because though he may be many things, he was not cruel), and certainly not in a position to steal his things in the middle of the night.

        She didn’t put up much of a fight about him tying her up, really, and her largest issue had been a white stone she kept in her back pocket. She didn’t want it to get lost or to fall from her pocket in the night. Eventually, after a half an hour of arguing, she had agreed to be leashed to the tree so long as he kept her stone safe in his bag. He’d shrugged and taken the rock, pushing it into the bottom of his bag without a second thought, forgetting about it just as quickly.

        As his eyes closed that night and unconsciousness took him, his last thought was that this quest might not be so horrible after all. He’d forgotten about his irritation with Teacher Baradock for hours, it having been replaced with irritation for this bandit, and the wonder of that fact didn’t escape his notice.

* * *

        Day three of Isaiah’s quest (and day two with his stubborn new guest) was another day of brightness and glory. The foliage above him was thicker and seemed to be getting more so as he got close and closer to the center of the Achadeian forest. The joyful energy filling the air was still wholly inappropriate, in Isaiah’s opinion, but his inner monologue of complaints was nowhere near as active.

        Indeed, his inner monologue was almost mute, so distracted was he. The bandit still had not abandoned him and was still stubbornly on his trail. She did not seem likely to leave him alone anytime soon. She did not let him think for too long and _certainly_ kept him alert. More than once she almost fell, only to be caught by him.

        As it was now, she was doing her best to annoy him. That’s what it seemed like, at least, in Isaiah’s opinion. She was asking all sorts of questions, analyzing his admittedly lackluster replies, and inserting her opinion where it was not welcome. Isaiah was more than amazed with his own patience, having tolerated her for this long without an outburst. Surely Teacher Baradock would be proud of him.

        “So, what are you even out here for?” She was incessantly chipper, the type of happy that is so unyielding that you want to smother it.

        “Searching,” he replied quietly.

        “For what?”

        “Does it really matter?” he quipped in reply, eyebrows furrowing.

        “Sure it does,” she said. “I can’t help, if I don’t know. Also, what’s the harm in telling me?”

        “You’re a thief,” he pointed out. “You steal. I’m searching for something and if I told you what it was, how am I to know that you wouldn’t simply make off with it yourself?”

        She shrugged, laughing. “Who knows? Is this thing you’re searching for valuable?”

        “Not to you.” And it wasn’t, really — this flower may be rare and extremely hard to find but not many people would recognize it for what it was. Its medicinal properties were great but without the required expertise, it was still just a flower.

        “Then what do you have to worry about?”

        Isaiah supposed she had a point. He rolled his eyes at himself but spoke nonetheless. “I’m looking for a night-flower. It’s a very rare type. It only grows here, in this forest, during this season, and it’s my job to find it.”

        “What’s it called?” she asked. “This flower.”

        “The name is meaningless to you,” he sighed. “But I can tell you a bit more about it, if you’d like.” She nodded. “This flower is said to be a gift from Hella. It’s white and black in color and glows under the moonlight. The white petals are meant to be able to heal nearly any ailment, if you know what to do with them. On the other hand, its black petals are supposed to be frightfully deadly.”

        She was silent for a few moments before she spoke. “So, like Hella, it’s dual in nature. Life and death. How fitting.” Her voice was soft and she seemed unusually pensive. He blinked at her, unsure what to say.

* * *

While he was setting up camp for himself, ignoring the fact that she had unhelpfully sat herself on his bed pallet and didn’t seem to be interested in moving, something occurred to him. His hands stopped what they were doing near the fire, kindling in his fist, and Isaiah laid eyes on the bandit with something close to curiosity. “I don’t know your name,” he said, interrupting one of her irrelevant tangents.

        “No,” she hummed, “I don’t supposed you do. I don’t know yours, either, you know.” She had been walking with him for hours and he did not know her name. This was their final night of rest before they reached the flower and before Isaiah began his journey back to his teacher.

        “I’m Isaiah Watson,” he said simply, dumbfounded.

        “I’m Hope,” she chirped, and he almost laughed.

        “Hope?” he repeated, voice thick with dark humor and bitterness. “Interesting name.”

        “Hope Engstrom and you better not forget it.”

        “Yeah,” he said, “okay." And his hands went back to motion, kindling the fire and finishing the set up for camp. Hope hadn’t been too hard to tolerate this day, he thought, and he was going to make a bed pallet for her to sleep on as well. As Isaiah approached however, he noticed his pack open and lying next to the bandit. She had one hand holding it open and the other inside, searching. Ruffling, moving, _stealing_.

        His anger was inexplicable. So was the betrayal. There was no logic or reason for the rush of emotion. Hope was a bandit, a _thief_. He knew as much. He should not be surprised at this turn of events. She had tried to rob him just days before, after all.

        “Put my things down,” he whispered evenly, voice cold and controlled. Her head snapped up to look at him, expression blank and confused. Probably hadn’t expected to be caught, a voice snarled in his head.

        “What?”

        “Put — my — things — down,” he repeated slowly, hand moving to his belt to remove the knife he kept latched at his belt. She stared at him for a moment before her head slowly swiveled down to his bag at her side. Isaiah saw her jaw clench.

        “I wasn’t stealing anything,” she stated. He snorted in disbelief and that was apparently enough to make _her_ angry. That was good because her confused calm had been starting to irritate him. “I wasn’t!” she shouted. “I was looking for my stone.” She pulled her hand out of his bag, luminescent white rock in her grip flashing through the air for emphasis, and pushed herself to her feet.

        “Don’t have to tie me to a tree,” she sneered at him. “I’ll not touch your stuff on _this_ night. In honor of our time so far, you could say. Sleep in peace, Isaiah. It was a nice adventure.” Before he could reply, she slipped into the trees and out of his sight. His voice died on his tongue, words forming a stale pool in his mouth.

_Goodbye_ , he thought but didn’t say.

* * *

The next day was completely fine. Great, even. This was exactly how things should be. Everything had returned to normal and the quest was now everything that he had expected: a boring walk through a boring forest. Regardless, Isaiah was thankful for the normalcy. There were no unruly bandit girls following him around, scaring away nature with their incessant talking.

        Everything was normal. And he was fine with that, he really was. He would be reaching the flower today, if he had navigated the forest correctly (and he was certain he had), and the walk back would pass far more peaceably than the journey in. Isaiah was almost looking forward to it.

        “You have much to learn, Isaiah,” Teacher Baradock had told him at the start of all of this, voice somber. “I am hoping that this quest will show you some things — that it will teach you what I haven’t been able to.” He had gone silent then, almost sad, and Isaiah remembers shuffling around uncomfortably in front of him, like a child facing the disappointment of their parent.

        In a way, that’s what it had been. Teacher Baradock had practically raised Isaiah. He had been the guiding hand throughout his youth and had been a comfort on more than one occasion. Teacher Baradock had found Isaiah the night after his parents’ funeral. He had been the only one to know where Isaiah might hide and he had been the only one who knew what words to say, what to offer, in order to make Isaiah crawl out of his hiding place and finally allow himself to cry.

        That’s why the idea that Isaiah wasn’t good enough when he had been certain that he was finally going to be recognized hurt so much. That’s why Isaiah hated this quest. Now, more than ever, with an aura of pessimism following him around, he was willing to bet that Teacher Baradock had finally gone senile. This mission wasn’t teaching Isaiah anything.

        Isaiah kicked a rock and hurried on his way. He just wanted to get this over with.

* * *

It was almost nightfall when Isaiah made it to the growing-place of the night flowers. Their petals were spread and angled toward the sky. The moon reflected beautifully on them. It was an idyllic view—it _really_ was—but Isaiah felt strangely defeated when he looked at them. This wasn’t at all as fulfilling as he’d imagined it would be.

        True. The majority of his imaginings of this part of his journey had taken place after Hope joined his party. They had all consisted of her blabbering voice, her childish excitement, and now the air was painfully silent. If he stopped to think about her, his guilt consumed him. Yes, it had looked like she was trying to steal from him but now that he actually replayed the scene in his head she _had_ seemed to be in search of her stone. For all he knew, the stone was precious to her. Perhaps it was some heirloom passed down in her family or perhaps it was of some spiritual significance to her.

        He shook his head and crouched down, fingers inserting themselves into the dirt so that he could carefully take the flowers from the soil they were in. The dirt was soft around them but didn’t fall apart in his hands and he was grateful for that—it would make transportation so much easier. Isaiah pulled a basket from his bag, one just big enough to fit three of the flowers and their soil in it. Hopefully that would be enough. If he cared for them well on his journey back, Teacher Baradock may even be able to plant them when Isaiah returned. He wasn’t sure how they would cope outside of the forest but he thought it was still worth trying.

        When he was done and back on his feet, Isaiah cast one last glance at the bed of flowers. He could make camp here, he supposed, since it _was_ dark but this place and its unnatural beauty unnerved him. He wanted to get at least a mile or two between this place and himself before he tried to sleep. And so he blinked at the moon and continued on his way, beginning his journey home.

* * *

For the second time on this journey, something rustled in the bushes to his left. Isaiah’s heart leapt to his throat and his eyes widened. If there was anyone he knew who was this horrible at sneaking, it was Hope. Could she have really come back? Perhaps she, like him, couldn’t get over how awfully things between them had ended. Or perhaps she hadn’t gotten to look at him and thought he was a different person and was going to attempt to rob him again. He didn’t know. He didn’t care. Both options made his heart soar in anticipation. He played along.

        Isaiah held his breath as he walked, pretending to ignore the growing rustling. Any moment now, she would come tumbling out and he’d smile and help her to her feet. Just a few more seconds and—

        A hand burst from the bushes, followed by a tall, lanky form. Wrong. That wasn’t Hope. The movements were too graceful. Isaiah’s countenance hardened, eyes narrowed, and he turned his body toward the stranger. This may not be his useless bandit but it was a bandit still. Isaiah rolled his shoulders and loosened his limbs, moving into a deceptively casual position. “Can I help you?” he asked.

        “I think so,” said the newcomer, a leer on his face. He was ugly, deep gashes dug into his face, like canyons weathered into the land. His hair was dirty and clumped together, the blond of it dull and dark because of all of the filth. The man was disgusting and so Isaiah offered an affected glare. “I’m awfully poor, you see,” the bandit continued, voice surprisingly smooth and cultured. His speech did not at all match his appearance. “And if you would be kind enough to give me some money, I’d be extremely grateful. We could both be on our ways.”

        The words were innocent enough but Isaiah knew a threat when he heard one. The words may be soft and pleading but the posture of the bandit made it clear that he wasn’t asking nicely. The arrogant leer on his face simply emphasized the point.

        “Well,” said Isaiah. “I’m afraid you’ll have to get your charity elsewhere. I have nothing on me.” The bandit seemed to weigh his words for a moment before slouching, as if he were actually going to accept Isaiah’s words.

        “That’s fine.” The filthy man shrugged. “I’ll just kill you instead. I should be able to make a profit on what you’ve got on you. You’d also be surprised at how the organ market is doing lately! I could get enough to eat for a month off of your heart alone!” And then he lunged forward, grappling at Isaiah with long, unforgiving fingers. Isaiah sidestepped, dodging the grab just barely, and lifted his foot in a kick. The bandit stumbled a few steps back at the force of Isaiah’s blow but seemed otherwise stable.

        “Okay,” the bandit sighed. “You seem like the fighting type. I respect that, I really do, but I’m in a bit of a hurry. So I hope you can forgive me for this.” His voice was painfully sweet. Fake, sarcastic, gross. The bandit raised a hand and brought it to his mouth, letting out a shrieking whistle. Isaiah knew he was in trouble when twelve more people walked into the clearing, each as dirty as the original bandit. The hilt of a sword flew toward his face and Isaiah said a word that would have had him scrubbing clothes for a month had Teacher Baradock heard. Then everything went black.

* * *

For some reason, he wasn’t dead. For all intents and purposes, he should have been in Helheim by now. (He wasn’t cocky enough to think he’d go to Valhalla or Fólkvangr. He wasn’t close enough to Odin or Freya for that.) But Isaiah was certainly not among the dead in Helheim, nor was he in unimaginable pain. His eye was a bit sore and—ouch—judging by the sting, he wouldn’t be able to open it for a few days, but he seemed healthy. How strange.

        He chanced opening the eye  that wasn’t swollen and saw that he was on the outskirts of a camp. His hands were bound behind him. In front of him, he could see the setup of some sort of bandit trade-hub. There were tents, bedrolls laid out by fires, tables set up with bread on them, and many rough-looking people spread out. It was loud, the air filled with raucous laughter and movement.

        “Ah, who’s tied to a tree now?” A familiar voice asked. Isaiah strained his eye up and saw the scowling form of one Ms. Hope Engstrom.

        “It’s nice to see you again,” he said, ignoring her taunting question. “I thought you were gone for good. Do you mind if I ask why I’m not dead?” She shrugged. Either she was unwilling to answer the question or she did not know. He sighed but moved on. “I’m sorry for accusing you of stealing my things, Hope.”

        “Yeah, well,” she rolled her eyes at him, kneeling down so that looking at her wasn’t so uncomfortable on him. “I probably overreacted a bit. I am a thief.”  That small forgiveness was enough to loosen a tight ball in Isaiah’s stomach that he hadn’t even known was there. She grinned for a moment before the smile died down. “You found the flower you were looking for.” It was a statement but he confirmed it nonetheless.

        “Yeah. But I don’t have it anymore. It’s probably been sold or trampled on by now. It’s also useless since I am probably going to die soon.”

        “You’re not going to die,” she scoffed at him. He raised his eyebrows at her. “I claimed you.” She said it like that was a simple thing—a _normal_ thing—and as if it explained everything. Apparently his face told how confused he was because she made an annoyed noise. “You’re my prize. Most people sacrifice their prizes to the gods but—“ she hummed “—I think I can make an exception this once. Are you ready to get out of here, Isaiah?”

        Hope pulled out a knife and moved behind him. A few sharp tugs on his wrists later and the ropes fell down. He was no longer bound. “Thank you,” he murmured and put a hand over her mouth to muffle her squeal as he pulled her deeper into the forest and away from this quaint little bandit camp.

* * *

They didn’t talk for awhile. Isaiah was too focused on getting back away from the bandits to worry about conversation and any attempts Hope made at chattering quickly died down without reception. If Hope was bothered by his silence, she didn’t say anything, so Isaiah didn’t really think about it for too long. When there were miles of forest between the bandits and them, he slowed to a stop, turning around to stare at Hope in amazement of his own carelessness.

        This was insanity! Complete chaos. Loptr, the god of mischief, was truly playing with him this day. Or perhaps it was Odin, the god of wondering and long journeys. Either way, Isaiah was at a loss.

        “I don’t have my pack. Nothing to sleep in.” Laughter spilled from his mouth, bubbling in the air around them. Isaiah fell to the ground, staring up at the foliage above him. His mission was a failure. He could always start the journey back to the center of the forest, where the night flowers lay, but some defeated part of him thought doing so would be pointless. Regardless, he had to try. In the morning, he would set back out. He could not give up now.

        He closed his eye for a few moments, meditating on all that had happened. Teacher Baradock certainly didn’t plan for any of this to happen, Isaiah thought. He couldn’t have. It was impossible. Still, though his quest currently seemed badly broken, something about this all felt right. He shook his head and opened his uninjured eye, turning his gaze toward the leaf-littered floor of the forest.

        “We’ll—“ he sighed, shaking his head, watching Hope out of the corner of his vision. “ _I’ll_ need to head back to the center tomorrow. I’ve lost the flowers.” His gaze jarred to the front when Hope crouched down in front of him with the suddenness of a wild thing. She was smiling at him, expression soft and triumphant, and he felt his mouth gaping open.

        Hanging loosely in her grip was his bag. She let it swing side to side for a few seconds, his eye following the movement, before handing it to him. “Someone else claimed the bag as their prize,” she shrugged, “but I’m a thief. I took it.” She watched him for a bit, probably expecting some sort of reaction, but Isaiah was frozen in shock. All sorts of emotions flooded his veins, a barrage of thoughts shooting through his brain, and it was all he could do to hold still—he feared that if he moved he would combust.

        Except that being still now seemed to take more effort than moving and so Isaiah carefully placed his bag on the ground beside them, his movement mechanical, eye never once leaving Hope’s face. Then he flung himself at Hope, arms circling around her, squeezing, the laughter of boyhood and joy filling the air. “Thank you,” he murmured, the words repeating over and over. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

        If Hope was surprised, she didn’t take long to recover. Before Isaiah knew it, she was pushing him over and they were rolling, wrestling, grappling with each other for control. It was a reflection of simpler times. It reminded Isaiah of when he was a child and he used to play with the blacksmith’s son. At the end of any given day, he and Isaiah would be a bruised mess, with spirits so high they could look down on the sky.

        In the end, Isaiah’s talent as a martial artist and Hope’s lack of coordination got the best of them. Isaiah pinned Hope to the ground, leaves tangled in her hair. Her eyes were bright with life, shining, face flushed with excitement, and he suspected he was probably in a similar state.  “Come with me,” he said. “To my village.”

        Hope stared at him with wide eyes. Then the world was a blur again as she maneuvered their weight, flipping him over so that she had the power position. The air left him in a _woosh_ as his back hit the ground. She grinned at him. “Is there lots of trouble to get into at your village?” she asked.

        “I suspect there’s always trouble to get into around you,” he drawled.

        “Then I’m in.”

* * *

A day later and half of the return journey was completed. A couple more short days of travel and they would be back in Isaiah’s village. The sun shone bright and orange in the sky, making dark blue lighter and welcoming. Isaiah thought it was quite beautiful—it fit the wonder of this journey perfectly. Joyful scenery made him remember all that had happened so far.

        Isaiah and Hope walked side by side, body heat and laughter radiating around them. They had just finished a horrid, off-key rendition of one of the famous Athesian lullabies and it was so much fun. Isaiah cursed himself mentally for avoiding happiness for so long. Why had he been so attached to pessimism? Happiness was nothing to be afraid of.

        He watched as Hope dug in her pocket, bringing out her luminescent rock and toying with it, seemingly without thought. Suddenly he was so curious that he could not stop himself from speaking. “Does the rock have a meaning?” he mused quietly. Hope turned to him curiously and sighed, squeezing the rock into her fist.

        “Might as well tell you,” she said. He blinked at her a few times and she scoffed playfully, nudging his arm, before launching into her tale. “This rock is my world. When my parents abandoned me when I was younger, I was lost and confused with nothing but the surrounding forests to comfort me. The trees and their shadows were terrifying. I was an outcast—no one from my village would want me. I couldn’t go back. I wouldn’t know how to get back if I _could_.”

        She sighed and he placed a hand on her shoulder briefly in comfort, squeezing lightly to ground her. “After a few months of survival, I came across a small hut. It was empty and I took advantage of that, living there for a few days. Inside I found a book documenting the gods, a diary written by whoever had once lived in the hut. Whoever he was, he was definitely fond of the gods. I’m so thankful that I knew how to read—I’m not sure what I’d do if I hadn’t. . .” She shook her head. “I was drawn to Loki. He, like me, was often an outcast. He is the Father of Monsters, speaker of lies and keeper of truths, and I found solace in him.

        “I prayed to him often. One day, sometime later, he appeared to me. We talked. He made me laugh, he told me some uncomfortable truths, made me face my own flaws, and he told me that I would not be alone. When he left me, this stone was sitting in his place. It had his rune on it, laguz, so there was no doubt that it was his. It’s a connection between the two of us and. . . I don’t know. He still responds to me, obviously, and is just as much of a doofus as always, but this rock still makes me feel safe.

        “I _know_ he’d still visit me if I lost the rock. I know that. Unlike my parents, Loki won’t abandon me. But still. . .” She trailed off then, either unable to or unwilling to continue. He didn’t push her, instead smiling at her pensive expression and ruffling her hair.

        “I’m not abandoning you either,” he quipped simply, and left it at that. She didn’t respond but he was certain he saw her smile.

* * *

When Isaiah and Hope reached the village a few days later, the sun was already on its way down for the night. Someone must have told Teacher Baradock of Isaiah’s return because he was waiting outside of his home with a smile on his face, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes a testament to the gentleness the man carried. Isaiah—measured, reserved Isaiah—broke into a sprint when his eyes landed on his teacher.

        Teacher Baradock met him halfway and embraced him, grip firm and welcoming. He was home. He had made it. By the time the two men released each other Hope had closed the distance between them and was watching the scene with a bemused expression. Isaiah couldn’t help himself. He stuck his tongue out at her, throwing all maturity into the void.

        “You’ve done well,” Teacher Baradock observed, voice bringing Isaiah back to reality. He held his hand out to Hope and she handed him his bag. Everything that had happened so far was because of this. Isaiah reached into the pack and pulled out the basket of flowers. They were still as beautiful and fresh as the day he had taken them from the forest, kept alive by Isaiah’s care.

        He lowered himself to the ground, kneeling before his teacher and placed the flowers at Teacher Baradock’s feet. “I’ve returned,” he said. “Here are the flowers, as you asked.” When there was no reply, Isaiah looked up, confused. Teacher Baradock was watching him, eyes glittering.

        “Congratulations, Isaiah. You’ve done better than I could have ever hoped.” The teacher sighed, his age evident in that one action. He held out a hand and helped Isaiah to his feet. “I suppose you’d like to know why I sent you on this quest now. Do you want me to tell you the lessons I had hoped you’d learn?”

        For a long moment, Isaiah was silent. He watched Teacher Baradock. Then he turned and watched Hope, who was observing the scene with a smirk. No doubt the commentary in her head would be relayed to him in embarrassing detail as soon as this was done. She truly never did stop talking—she had enough opinions for this whole kingdom and more. Hope met his gaze and tilted her head to the side, eyes narrowed at him in a playful challenge. The sunset shone on her beautifully, making the coiled energy within her more than obvious.

        “No,” said Isaiah finally, eyes not leaving Hope. “I think I understand.”


End file.
